


Wear Your Heart on Your Skin

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [33]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Silly Arguments, Smut, Tattoos, good parenting, insecure elf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inkings are very important to dwarves. but - sometimes even the greatest warriors run out of courage. sometimes they need their parents to sort out the mess they have made........</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/gifts).



> title from a quote by Sylvia Plath (who probably wasn't thinking about these two)
> 
> inkings referenced in 'Red Star Rising' , 'Breaking the last Rule' and 'Mortality Tale Ending' - and I wondered. as did Hope - without whom ? - because everyone needs hope....... ;D

Late as it is, he is sitting on the bed waiting for me. Daft sodding elf, I think, but -- how sweet. Then I see his face. 

Oh shit. 

Elf not feeling sweet. Elf cross.

Elf bloody furious might be closer.

"Everything alright this evening love?" I ask, remembering one of Father's tips for marital harmony - ignore a problem and it may go away. And if not, at least you can claim not to have started it.

He looks at me, and, oh shit, I haven't seen that dangerous glitter in his eyes for a long while now.

"No," he hisses, "everything is not all bloody right. How many years? How many sodding years have we been vowed?"

After a moment I realise he is waiting for an answer. And, to my shame, I don't know. Not after a night's drinking.

"Fifteen," I guess, still not sure what this is about.

Wrong answer. Clearly.  
Fuck.

"Eighteen?" I try.

"For the love of Eru, Gimli, I am the daft sodding elf. I am the one who is supposed to be bad at counting the years. No. Thirteen."

Oh. Does it matter? Why? 

Do we have to have this conversation now?

I don't say this. I scrabble for a better answer,  
"Is that all, love?" I ask, "it seems longer." And, as I see the raised brow I realise how that could sound, I add hastily, "in a good way. Oh fuck, elf, you know I can't imagine being without you. Please ghivashel, I am too bloody drunk for this. Either tell me what I have done or come here and let me kiss it out of your pretty head."

For a minute I wonder if it will work, knowing it does not really deserve to.

But, he looks at me in silence - complete silence - oh double shit, he has stopped singing - for a long moment, and then sighs,  
"Bedtime then. But - we will talk in the morning."

I think it is the first night we have ever spent so far apart and yet in one bed. I sleep - of course I bloody sleep, I have spent the evening drinking heavily - but I wake feeling lousy. What I really want is to go back to sleep, or, preferably, back to the point I walked in last night and get it right this time. I almost roll over, and I don’t know whether I would be searching for sleep or elf, but the cold space beside me is chilling. 

The room is so quiet I think he must have already risen. It is not unusual for him to wake hours before me, if he even sleeps, and here I know he likes to go, supposedly in search of food, actually simply to follow one of my parents around. Its rather sweet really, although at the same time it twists my heart, were I to think about why.

Something in my breathing must change, and he speaks,  
"You are awake at last. I would have words with you."

Oh fuck, I think. Whatever it is, he really is upset. I am thinking desperately, trying to work out what I have done. 

"Gimli, I know you are listening. So, tell me. Explain to me, why, if inkings are so important, not as obvious as braids, but more permanent - why is the first I hear of this from your father? Why is it Gloin-ada that tells me this? And why does he assume it is done? Why - why have you lied to me - and to your parents? Why - Gimli - why do you not wish to mark me - to carry my name?"

Oh more than double shit. I should have known this would catch up with me one day. But it has been so long. 

So long too since he sounded so - sad. So hurt. And I realise that for all the years of love, there are centuries of neglect still aching in him.

"Fucks sake," I say, struggling upright in the bed, "daft sodding elf, you said - before it was time to think of such things – within our first month – when it could not have been done – you said an inking was too unelven. I could not ask it of you. So I thought best not to mention it." 

He looks at me, and I wonder what more I need say.  
"Sorry," remembering Father would say that if you cannot avoid apologising, the sooner you get it over with, the less you will hear of it later, "sorry love. I - oh fuck, sometimes it just seems there are so many things you must change or lose or learn to be with me. And you were so - unsure - of so much." I shrug.

"Oh," he is quiet for a moment, thinking. I wait, watching his hands. There is no point trying to guess his thoughts from his beautiful elven face, that I have learnt, but the way he fiddles with his bracelet tells me he is wondering whether he can believe me. That he wants to, wants to trust this, trust us but – he is afraid. Still.

And I find that again, I would give much for a very short, very – intense – conversation with the bastard king, and perhaps those brothers of my love.

I wait until I think he will be able to listen, and then,  
"Come here, come and sit by me, love," I say, "comb me? Let me comb you? It is not that important, the inking. None would know, either way. But – it can be done. Anytime."

He comes over, he sits beside me, leans against me, and I start to unbind his hair, as he tentatively begins to reach for my beard. 

"You mean it?" he asks, and I hate to hear him sound so nervous again.

"Of course I bloody mean it." And I know I should be gentler, kinder, but I cannot. "Fucks sake, elf, when have I ever - ever - said something to you I did not mean?"

Silence.

But not so complete. Song starting to come back now.

Good.

Fuck, I think, there was actually a time when his singing annoyed me. Now, I cannot imagine how I lived without it.

For a while it seems all is well. My hands are busy in his hair, his in my beard. He sings quietly. 

"What would you do? What design?" he asks, "And where?"

I have not really considered.

I think.

Nothing too much, I think. Nothing too dwarven.

I hesitate, "I suppose, just my name on you. Maybe - maybe a star. And it would go here -" I place my hand over his heart, feeling the beat, relieved it seems normal, definitely calming down now, and it occurs to me to wonder how those who don’t comb find their way back to each other on these occasions, "and before you ask, I would have your name, with I suppose a leaf, in the same place. There is an emptiness, waiting." I smile at him, seeing the look in his eyes, "yes, before you say it, just as there was in my life."

"And mine," and he kisses my hand, then he looks up at me, and raises his brow, "but, for one who has not given it any thought, you seem to have it all planned, melethron-nin. But - when did I say unelven?"

He does not remember. Bloody stupid elf. How can he have forgotten that night, how upset he was? And if he has, would I be cruel to remind him?

"When?"

Shit. I really don't want him to remember how upset he was.

"Meleth, when? You never - oh. Oh." He stops, and I see his sweet ears flush the most beautiful pink. Oh my elf, how I am tempted to stroke them, how much I would prefer to play that game, than have this conversation. He breathes, not quite a sigh, and then, little as I suspect he wants to, thinks back. "Gimli-nin, that is not fair. I was upset. Unreasonably, excessively upset. You - you must have known I was being ridiculous. Even by the low standards you then had for me."

What? So, now, this is my fault? Because I listened, and took his worries seriously? 

Durin's cock, there are times when I despair. 

I cannot think of a reply.

He continues,  
"Honestly melethron-nin, how could you remember that all this time?"

How? How could I bloody forget?

"I - I was clearly upset. You - you could have asked me again. Later. I - I - how could you not?"

"Because, you - you bloody stupid elf, because I was trying to be kind. I shall not again, worry not. Fucks sake, next time you say you don’t like something, I shall just keep on til you give in? Yes?"

We glare at each other.

Fuck.

This is daft.

Why are we arguing about this?

I wonder what Father would say. Or Mother. 

Maybe we should just ask them.

But no, on it goes. He said, I said, he thought, I thought, oh for fucks sake.


	2. Chapter 2

"Yes, I think they are having a row, yes I think it is your fault, no I don't think there is anything you can do." So, I think, next time, my beloved husband, keep your nose out. Next time, notice the bloody faces I am making at you. Poor sodding elf, he was devastated. And angry - Durin's balls he was angry. I do not think our son will be able to explain this one away easily. 

My dear husband looks down at his hands, and I watch him clench and unclench his fists - wishing there was something he could do, needing a practical way to help. Except there isn't one. And if there was, oh my poor love, what good would it be? His poor hands are beyond any fine craft now. We pretend not, but I know, and in his heart he knows, I am sure, those days are gone. I suppose this is one thing loving an elf means my son is safe from, this ache at watching my love age and crumble.

I suppose this is something that will be even worse for the poor elf, more of a shock.

Assuming they have not actually killed each other before that day.

It's funny really. 

I mean, we have always known Legolas was - is - a fighter, but somehow, when he is here, he always seems so gentle, so young. I know he is not, that he is older than any other I have ever met, older than Gandalf, yet he has always seemed it.

I am still thinking this through, watching my love as he clearly blames himself for the vicious arguing we can overhear, thinking that it is surprising an elf is not more careful to keep his voice low, when my son appears.

"Mother," he says, and oh, he sounds as he did when he wanted me to fix his first tiny hammer, "mother, you do have ink and needles, and you can show this daft sodding elf of mine how to use them?"

Oh. 

I wonder who has won, then.

Neither of them look very happy.

"Yes, but," I am definite about this, "not before you both – and I mean both, master elf – have eaten something." I am tempted to add, and calmed down and talked sensibly about this. But even though they are clearly being ridiculous, I don’t think I dare.

Neither of them looks happy. 

Elf – the only word for it is flounces – to a seat as far from my son as possible. Oh dear, I think, from one who would normally be so close as to be virtually on his lap, this is extreme. 

In silence, they sit there, one picking at some fruit, the other looking unenthusiastically at bread and honey. My husband catches my eye, and I see that he too is torn, not knowing whether to laugh or slap them.

Do dwarrowlings never grow up? 

Our son looks much as he did as a child when Fili and Kili had gone off leaving him, or, more like, I think, when he and Droin had an argument. In those days, it was simpler. Separate them, let them calm down, see that the other was not unreasonable......if only that would work now. 

When my dear one speaks, I find our thoughts have run on the same lines.

"All very well," he says, "but, first I need you to come with me to the house of Bain father of Brorild, son. I promised you would speak with him, for he is worried about his grandson in Aglarond, and he is at his clearest early in the day," he sighs, and this I know is true, "as am I. Later, he will not know you, and I will not find the walk easy."

And I cannot but admire the way he uses his infirmity to buy the cooling off time they need.

Left alone with the elf, I wait for him to speak. I know he wants to, but something seems to hold him back. I keep myself busy, making work, truth be told, but I know he will be more likely to start if he cannot see my face.

"Naneth," he begins, hesitantly, and then, in a rush, "but - I do not even know if I can call you that - if he does not - has not - if I am not his, then -" 

I turn as his words run out, and I see - I see he is working his hands furiously, biting his lip in the effort not to cry. And I think, oh you fool, you bloody fool Gimli.

"Stop it," I say, "stop being so fucking ridiculous. Whatever the trouble was between you, we are your Naneth and Gloin-ada. Were you to -" I hesitate, wondering if an elf can understand what I am about to say, wondering if even an elf can be daft enough to believe the words I think he needs to hear, "to be untrue to him, we would still care for you. Angry though we would be. But you have not. He has not. This is all over - what? Some marks, some ink?"

He nods, looking at his hands, and I wait,  
"But - if he did not tell me – did not want to - to mark me - if it is so important - then - I do not understand. Why? Why, Naneth? Why would he not do this? What - what did I do wrong? I - I thought - I thought he loved me." And his lovely voice is almost a wail, and oh, he sounds so desolate.

But - honestly, I could cheerfully slap him - how can he be so silly? 

"Of course he bloody loves you, you daft sodding elf," I say, and realise I have used my son's phrase as I see the points of his ears flush, "believe me, if he did not, it would be clear. I do not know what all this about the inkings is - how did you not realise? You must have known it is normal? Or do elves wait until more years pass?"

He looks at me blankly,  
"Elves do not wear inkings," he says, as though it is obvious, "we - if we vow - it is forever - but - we only show it in our braids. Or sometimes rings. But - we said - neither of us wanted rings. I - I just do not - why did he not tell me of inkings?"

I am silent. 

I don’t know.

I think over his words, I think of my son. My fierce, proud son.

My son who is loyal, who is so protective of his elf. Even before they were vowed, he would not hear a word against him.

So vehement his defence that it was clear to us where his heart lay, even though I think he still denied it to himself.

"He knows this?" I ask, "that elves do not wear inkings?" And I see in his eyes that this has been said, and I shake my head at the stubbornness of them both, "he knows this, and he would not risk you saying nay. He will say it was to protect you, to save you having to be shamed in your people's eyes, but, if I know my son, it is that he was afraid you would say no. And he knew he could not bear it."

There is silence again, and I turn away once more, busying myself, to let him think. I may or may not be completely right, but I am confident that this was part of it. And if it gives them both a get-out, a way to for neither to have to be completely in the wrong, then perhaps it is a story worth believing.

“Truly? You – Naneth, you think this? It – it is not – as I feared?”

I sigh, again, and shake my head once more,  
“Believe me, Legolas, if my son did not love you, he would not have spent thirteen years at your side. I – oh you know how he was as well as I – and when did he spend thirteen nights in the same bed, before you?” shaming as it seemed to us to admit it, we did bring up a son who seemed ready to take any to his bed, for one night, but none for more. “Besides,” I add, and this is perhaps easier for him to hear from me, “think of all the comments, the disapproval he has had to ignore. As you have, I daresay. Neither of you would do that for – a passing fancy, I think.”

I see his face change in agreement, clearly there is something I do not know which I have called to mind by my words. 

“So,” I say, assuming this is now dealt with, “you will have to have – I don’t know – an apology – a – time alone – when he gets back and is calmer. And then we will do these inkings, if you want them. Or not, if it would make your life too difficult with your people. But now, now princeling, you are going to learn to bake.”

And the shock on his face is well worth the inevitable mess which will follow.

“Oh yes,” I say, “Gloin-ada and I are not getting any younger. One day, there will be no more cakes or bread coming from this kitchen. And you are not going to let my son rely on whoever he has cooking for the whole of Aglarond, are you?” and, I think, I am bloody sure none of your elves in Ithilien will be any use. 

If you had no mother to teach you such skills, then I had better do so now, since my own son seems to have failed to learn.

Besides, it will prevent you spending all sodding morning worrying and moping.


	3. Chapter 3

All the way to the house of Bain I am careful to speak only of where we are going, of what news he wishes to hear, and – harder this – that often he retreats into a happier world where Droin and Brorild married and went to Aglarond together. Speaking of this, I sigh,  
“After all, that is what every father wants to see. His child vowed and happy.”

I do not add anything else, but I think my wayward son understands as I see him flush under his beard.

The visit is appreciated, and seems long. It does not leave me feeling very cheerful – this is no old dwarf – not in my mind – he is my own age. He is failing, he will die soon. As I know I am beginning to fail, I think, unconsciously working my twisted hands. Most uncharacteristically, my son reads my thoughts, and – and I cannot remember the last time he did this – he reaches out as we walk, and takes my hand.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he says, not looking at me, “I’m sorry. I know you would have liked grandchildren. Been a good grandfather. I know you would have liked me to come back, settle here, near you.”

I am taken aback. True as the words are, it is not the kind of conversation we have. How to answer? I am proud of him – of course we are – but, yes, it is hard to see so little of him, hard to know that when he dies, there will be an end to our line, and although he will have found an heir, it will not be one of our blood. That my axe will lie unused.

“Only had it been your wish,” I say, after a moment, “I – no, I don’t understand, not really, how you can not want a child, but – it is how it is. It is your life. We – your Mother and I – we always saw you were very different to us. More – adventurous.” And, as we both realize how that sounds, “I didn’t mean in that way, you bloody fool. Although – yes – an elf was a surprise. But he has made you happy, and he is nice enough.” Grudging praise, perhaps, but my son knows me. It is the best I can do, fond as I am of the creature; indeed I would be hard put to sound less gruff when speaking of my own son. 

He looks away, and I feel his grip on my hand tighten,  
“And now I have fucked that up too,” he says, quietly.

Sweet Mahal, I think, give me strength.  
“No, you bloody idiot,” I say, “not fucked up. Just – maybe you need to learn he is not as fragile as he looks – as he was. Apologise. Properly. Your mother and I will go out, give you time and privacy.” And please, I think, use it, we don’t want this cloud hanging over the pair of you for the rest of your stay – and I would prefer not to hear all your – noisy – making-up. “And then we will do these inkings, if he is happy with it, and if not, you will accept it. And no-one needs ever know. I – I am only sorry I ever mentioned it. If you had told us, your mother and I, we would never have said anything.” I pause, then, “you do know, all these things, braids, inkings, rings, whatever, none of it matters. Sex, even, none of it matters. Not compared to love, to – oh I am no good with such words. But – if you can be so upset over such a thing, I worry – we worry – that we have taught you wrong somewhere. That you do not see that every day of your lives you live for each other. That he is your One. That – that none of these outward things last. That in the end, all that matters is that your – ” I gesture hopelessly, I am no good at this, then I remember the word, “your feas are bound.”

Durin forgive me. An elvish word. But – perhaps that is the only way to say this to my son.

There is a silence. I have never tried to speak of these things to him before, I thought – I hoped – I did not need to. That watching us he would have learnt, understood, but now – now I find I worry that we have let him down, that he needed it said. He is many things, my fine son, but not – not always – one to understand the ways of the heart. 

“I do know,” he says, quietly, “but – did you not ever worry? That despite – everything – you could never really be good enough?”

“No,” I say, and it sounds conceited, but it is true, “no, once your mother had told me her choice, I respected her enough to believe her word,” and as I see him flinch, I think, good. Poor bloody elf, you should trust him. “Sorry, but, there it is. He is no flighty creature, for all I once thought of elves. He was a fighter good enough to save Thorin’s company when you were too small to join us.”

“Save?” he asks, and I could laugh as I see that raised eyebrow, and know where he learnt it.

“Save, capture, comes to the same thing in that bloody forest. Just listen to what I am saying. You – you will not have us much longer to turn to. Learn to rely on him for everything.”

He does not like that thought. Well, nor do I, but it is true.

Fortunately, for I don’t think either of us want more of this conversation, we reach my door, and I can’t help but marvel at sodding elvish hearing, as it is thrown open, and my son is almost knocked over by a most contrite and excited elf.

“Gimli-nin, I am sorry. I – I am most truly sorry,” and there is a pause where words are not required. I stare fixedly at the wall opposite, pretending not to notice the twitching of curtains. Honestly. You would think these dwarves had never seen my son and his bloody elf before. I turn back as I hear speech again, “I – I have made you a cake. Naneth taught me. Come and see.”

Oh sweet Mahal, she has done what? An elf princeling? In my kitchen? 

That I would have liked to see.

And as my Nuris comes out, muttering about needing to go to the workshop, and will I accompany her, I think my words may have been true, but the daft elf has just undone much of my argument. He hardly looks a sensible, mature fighter, leaping about with flour on his face. 

Although, that kiss – he has certainly learnt much from my son.

My wife takes my hand, and before I can wonder at going to the workshop with no tools, she smiles at me in a way I learnt to recognise many years ago. Oh. _That_ sort of going to the workshop. My son is not the only one to sometimes underestimate his beloved.

We leave them to it, shutting the door behind us. There is no need to scandalize the neighbours any more today.


	4. Chapter 4

I hear his footsteps, I hear them through Naneth’s words as I would hear them across a silent glade, and I cannot but drop the cloth I am holding and run to open the door. I do not even notice Gloin-ada, though I suppose he must be there, all I see is my love, my love who no longer frowns and scowls at me. My love who is rarely – never – able to apologise first, 

“Gimli-nin, I am sorry. I – I am most truly sorry,” I say, and – his arms are round me, his mouth on mine, his hands sinking into my hair, stroking my ears, and I – I cling to him, as much his as I ever have been. And I wonder how I could ever doubt this, my last coherent thought as our kiss deepens. Eventually he breaks off, and I am reminded by Gloin-ada’s huff that dwarf-neighbours are not as oblivious to us in Erebor as in Aglarond. But I have something far more important to say,  
“I – I have made you a cake. Naneth taught me. Come and see.”

And I take his hand and drag him – laughing at me, he is laughing at me, I care for nothing if he is happy and laughing at me, and going to kiss me again – drag him through the house to the kitchen.  
Where there is indeed a cake.  
Not, I admit, a very good cake, it is lopsided, but, it is a cake. And I made it. I am very proud.

Pathetically so, I suppose. But – I have never made a cake before.

It was rather fun, actually.

And – he does look quite pleased. It occurs to me, I have never known him make a cake. Although I have certainly seen him eat plenty.

Unworthily, it also occurs to me that I have heard him praise the lembas bread made in Lorien, and – speak – endlessly – of how the Lady would bake it herself.

Useful as lembas is, this is a proper cake.  
Much nicer, surely.

Somewhere through his slightly – crumby – praise, I hear the door shut.

Good.

“Your parents have gone out, melethron-nin,” I say, still hanging onto him, wrapped round him from behind, watching him eat, and nuzzling into his hair, “and – I think we wasted a lot of time last night.” I pause, and run my hands down him, stopping when I reach his lacings, “and this morning.”

“We wasted time – daft sodding elf, who bloody started –“ he stops, and then, “no. I started it by not being honest. You told me years ago you would let me carve my name on you, I should have listened then. I am sorry. Really,” he turns, “really, I mean it. I am sorry. I love you.”

“I know – although – I did not know then just what it meant to you, and,” I confess, “and I hoped you wouldn’t, I was scared then; not now though, I want this, because you do, but – later,” I say, and as he smiles back at me, something in his eyes tells me that his mother was right to imply – only imply, she never actually says these things – that – he needs me as much as I need him. He just – finds it harder to say. I suppose he is so used to being strong for me – but – I love him. I can be strong for him too. I rest my forehead against his for a moment, and we blink at each other, no more words needed, then, I cannot help it, I must, I need, I sink to the ground, kneeling before him, and begin unlacing him, not playful, not clever, just – fast. But before I take him into my mouth, I look up at him, in the way he likes, and say, “You are not the only one who has had a morning of being scolded by your parents.”

He laughs, but only for a moment, because then, oh then there is nothing else in his world but what I am doing, and nothing else in mine but the taste of him, the sight, the smell, the feel of him, as he holds me, and hardens in my mouth, until I have him precisely as needy for me as I am for him.

“Oh fuck, Legolas, my love, you are so good at that,” he says, and I smile. Bloody Lady of Lorien wouldn’t do that either, I think, but it is only in a small jest to myself these days. I know where his heart lies. How could I not? I really am not that much of a fool, however daft he calls me, however I act at times.

It is just – sometimes – I need the proof, over and over. 

Like this, I think, like this. Want to see your eyes close, your knees buckle as you cling to me, shouting my name.

Oh, he says I am noisy – indeed I am noisy – but – for all his experience – he is not always quiet. He just – does not glory in sound, as I do. I suppose dwarves do not, that is why they sing less.

Wonderful when they do, though. Wonderful when he loses control.

But – he is pushing me – gently – but pushing nonetheless – away. I look up at him, puzzled.

“Not like this,” he says, “want – oh love, want you. Please.” And he pulls me up to him, our mouths meeting and oh – oh how I love the way he kisses me. On and on, until I am clinging, whimpering, and then, “want you, my prince,” he says, into my ear, and his hands are unlacing me, but even as I wriggle to help, he is guiding me to – oh. To strip him.

Then he is turning in my arms, and – oh Naneth would not be pleased, I think – he leans over the table and reaches behind him for me.

Oh. I – it is so rare that we do this. And – this is a ridiculous place to try. Surely he knows it. He is too much shorter than me for this to work. But – I am not going to start another argument by saying so. I am sure there must be a way to make it work. I just wish he would tell me what it is, for I am sure he knows. I do not think offering to fetch him a box to stand on would be a good idea. 

“Oil?” I ask, wondering if I can suggest we simply go to bed, wondering how long his parents will stay out of the house, wondering why he, who so often describes me as flighty and foolish, never thinks of these things.

“You have been in the kitchen all bloody morning, elf, don’t you know where it is?” he grumbles, but he reaches forward anyway, and – I take advantage to lift him onto the table, on his knees. He may well be about to complain, but I do not let him. I have learnt his lessons very, very well, and – I do not need oil. Holding his hips, I let my tongue work him open – part of me horrified by what I am doing, part of me loving his delight, his need, part of me just longing for the next time he will do this to me – and then I kiss up his spine as I let my fingers play. 

“Sweet Mahal,” he groans, “you will be the death of me, elf, hurry up. I want you. Need you me to scream?”

I am tempted to tease him, bite him, for that. But I will not. Instead, I do as he asks, hard and sudden. I – I am buried in him, my face in his hair, and – oh. I – I cannot – I am not he – I have no control – I can only hope – that this is what he wants – because – oh. Oh sweet Elbereth. And – and I – I love him – I need him so – and – he – he is mine. He says it, he knows what I need, and I cling, gasping, as I feel so – so enclosed. Somehow I remember to reach round him, and hold him, touching him as he has taught me, until I feel him tighten further around me, and I can move again, knowing I have pleased him, and oh – oh Gimli-nin.

“Love you,” he says, and one of his hands is supporting us, while the other takes my hand, still wet with his pleasure, and brings it to his mouth.

“Love you too,” I say – or whisper, breathless – as I half-lie, shuddering, across him, “but – oh Gimli-nin, do you think we will ever, ever, manage to communicate without fighting?”

I feel his laughter, and he answers, not wholly reassuringly,   
“I doubt it, ghivashel. But – what would life be without fighting, my warrior? Besides, peace-making is so much fun.”

I suppose he is right.

Mostly.

“Hmm. Now, however, we had best – make ourselves and this room presentable,” I say. I know his parents have a pretty good idea what we will be doing, but I do not think I wish to confront them with the evidence. It is, I think, a good thing this table is so well-crafted and strong, I would not wish to explain how we broke it. The bed in Imladris was bad enough.

He laughs again,  
“Oh my elf. We have plenty of time yet. They have – gone to the workshop. I know that look I saw on their faces. That is the look that told me only to follow if “its on fire, or bleeding” when I was small. And – my father may be old, but he is a dwarf. We are not flighty, easily distracted elves, you know.”

Oh. Now, I think, now it is I who has perhaps heard more than I wished. He turns, seeing the shock on my face,

“Did you really think we were the only couple who do not always wait until bed? Although – I did not sleep easy last night. Come to bed now, elf. And bring some of your marvelous cake, my talented love.”

For a moment I hesitate, but – actually, I can think of no better way to spend time, so I will do as I am told.

At least, all the time I like the ideas.

Besides, I deserve cake if I am to go through with this inking.


End file.
